


Aldrich Faithful

by Hancockles



Category: Dark Souls III
Genre: Gen, Master/Servant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 18:06:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7449058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hancockles/pseuds/Hancockles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You, one of Aldrich's many Faithful, have been called to his chambers. It's a moment you thought would never come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aldrich Faithful

It’s true with any occupation: a job well done deserves an accolade.

You’ve heard tales of dubious veracity and far-flung rumors – a special few, chosen for their hard work and dedication or, sometimes, solely for their beauty, invited to the white chambers of your lord.

The details of the visit and the nature of the reward vary greatly. Some supposedly receive trinkets, some leave with armor forged with skill beyond human ability, some receive lifelong blessings of health and youth. There are those that have claimed receiving favors of a far more carnal nature.

And, going even farther into the domain of the fantastic, were the tales of some having been eaten (“Flesh must taste all the sweeter if it belongs to you,” they said). This is patently false, you think. After all, who could stomach a mortal man after devouring gods? But it was undeniable that some Faithfuls left in the night and never returned.

An acquaintance, ever boastful, takes to showing off a gleaming sapphire ring on their left hand. It winks proudly in the light of the fire. Most who gather ‘round to see it exclaim excitedly, though a few remain skeptical.

“You could have stolen that from anywhere,” someone says.

“A common trinket,” you agree. “Nothing more.”

Your acquaintance continues on with a strange smile and a certain proudness in their eyes. “As good as if we were married,” they say.

You grab their hand and tilt it, moving the ring to and fro in the light. The gem catches every mote and beams it all back with great intensity. The blue of it reminds you of the far-off ocean. A solid gold band wraps around the ring finger. There is no word for it other than beautiful.

The thought of Aldrich bestowing a gift upon them – and not you – nearly makes your blood boil. Of your colleagues you are the only one to have taken no other vows within their lifetime. You are a true Aldrich Faithful; it is unthinkable that any one of them should be chosen before you.

You are confused, and hurt, and you go to bed angry.

But your time does come, that very night, in the dead of it, and two silver knights that guard the way to Aldrich come to your chambers to wake you. The people who bunk in the room with you stir and pretend to continue sleeping. You imagine them peeking at you through half-closed eyelids. This has never happened before, not that you know of. It would be difficult for anyone to resist watching. They will talk, once you have left the room.

The knights flank you on either side, walking slightly ahead. They say nothing and walk as though they are guided by invisible strings. Even their armor makes little noise. You walk through hallway after hallway, room through room, until finally you are gliding up the stone steps to Aldrich’s chambers. It is a clear night, and the moon shines brightly down on your path. Below you, the lights in the houses of the Boreal Valley twinkle like so many stars.

In his polished marble chamber it is quiet, save for the fluttering of sheer curtains against open windows. Moonlight leaks through, but barely. In the center of the room hangs a circular veil, blocking out all but the faintest suggestion of a human body. The shape shifts; it has to be him.

You think to run, that maybe there’s been a mistake. It was foolish of you to think he would want to look upon you, let alone grant you a gift. A bead of sweat threatens to spill over your brow. You look over your shoulder, for the knights, as though they could offer you some guidance, but they are gone. You are alone.

A slender hand parts the veil. You drop to your knees, keeping your eyes trained on the floor and your fist anchored, knuckle-first, to the cool marble beneath you. Rustling penetrates the silence of the chamber, but you don’t look toward it. Your eyes stay put.

What finally breaks the silence is a voice like a silver bell. “Come,” he says.

You rise. Stepping forward into the veil, you see him fully for the first time. Though he reclines on a chaise, you can tell he is taller than any man you know, and paler. Lank, near-white hair cascades to his shoulders, framing a thin face. You notice delicate lips. Worst of all are his eyes, which are gentle despite their icy color. You go weak in the knees, and wish you were still kneeling.

It takes you a second to locate his lower half, covered in a dark cloth, not unlike a dress. It takes you less than a second to avert your eyes. He notices immediately.

“Your curiosity must be unbearable,” he says. “You may look.”

He waits for your head to raise, then lifts the cloth. You see his lower half, snake-like, brown and pulsing. It seems to go on forever. There are bones, you think, sticking out here and there, but you don’t want to look long enough to confirm. The sight of this unexpected development sends your pulse skittering through your body. Since you don’t know how he thinks of it, you say neither praise nor condemn.

“Please,” he says. “Lay hands on it. Most aren’t fully satisfied until they have done so.”

Swallowing your heartbeat, you lay a hand on him, trying hard to hide your trepidation; warmth spreads through your palm. It’s no different than touching the skin of someone’s leg, save for the wetness.

“Does it surprise you?”

“No, my lord,” you lie, sliding your palm across the vast expanse of inhuman skin. Something like slime sticks to your palm. He inhales softly.

“Not many care to venture that way. You seem unafraid,” he says.

“Each part of you is blessed, my lord. None of it is to be feared,” you say, despite the nervous pounding of your heart.

His smile puts an arrow through your heart and a blush on your cheeks.

“I have brought you here,” he says, “because you are an asset to me. You are invaluable. Since I am so indebted, it would be inappropriate for me to fail to thank you.”

You look him in the eye, feel too bold, and look away, at his slender hands and long fingers.

“Some wish for treasures, some desire a blessing–”

He has lowered himself, much in the way a snake does, so he is nearly eye level with you. Since you feel his eyes boring a hole in you, there is no choice but to look up. His hair looks like snow in the moonlight.

“For what do you wish?” he asks.

Some unseen terror blocks your throat, squeezes the muscles there. What you want is unspeakable, especially in the presence of a saint. What you want should be left to your hand, in your own bed, in the dead of night –

As though he can read your mind, he reaches a hand around your back, touches the small of it. You feel almost cradled.

“I see. Some of you are like this,” he muses. The fingers of his free hand brush against your hair, then run down your cheek, to your collarbone. With a surprising strength and firm grip, he lifts you up to his chaise, sets you down on your feet. He lowers himself, some of him sliding off the piece of furniture, so you two are nearer to eye level once more.

“I won’t pretend to understand,” he says. “You may undress me.”

Realizing that comment is addressed to you is a kick in the chest. You are here, you realize, as if suddenly becoming aware of your surroundings. You are here. With him. And he has asked you to–

Your hands move feverishly, as though on their own, and you unbutton and untie and push back layer and layer of soft white clothing. He is pale, himself, so much so that you can barely tell that you’ve disrobed him. Touching him seems unthinkable, but you will your hand to move. He is cold, like a statue, and looking down at you with a small smile. He undresses you, now, with a carefree air. Before the last of your garb has fully hit the floor he has brought you into his arms again, pressing his face lightly against your neck.

He smells an almost sickly sweet; it’s a smell you recognize from somewhere in your childhood, though you are unable to place it.

Involuntarily, you groan softly. He presses on, parting his lips and tonguing a small patch of skin on your neck. And then he sucks softly, in a familiar gesture, and you think of the mark that will be there, come later. Steadily, he grows more eager, placing kisses up your neck to your earlobes, and then traveling back down to your chest. How long has it been since he…?

His size and strength leave you no opportunity to cut in – he continues to lavish you with kisses, small ones, and he seems to linger in places that you yourself would not focus on. The very crook of the neck, the hollow of your throat, the solid bone of your sternum. But his touch is careful, and it is good, and the warmth in it, despite the coldness of his skin, seems to paralyze you.

He positions you onto your back, as though you were nothing but a doll.

“Are we alright?” he asks, and you note the curious phrasing.

“Yes,” you say. “Keep going.”

What you feel is rising heat, almost unbearable, as his hands explore your body. He pays particular attention to your legs, palming the solid muscle there, ghosting fingertips over thighs and leaving goosebumps. Glancing up at you, a corner of his mouth raises in a smile. Shy, you think. The vulnerability in his look makes your heart ache.

His hair is soft as you thread your fingers through it, pulling him in for a deep kiss. Your hands roam his body, down to the small of his back, and soon they find themselves touching his snake-like lower half. He shudders, pulls away.

“My pet,” he says, with striking familiarity. “You needn’t touch there. I can’t imagine it brings you joy.”

You can’t think of a good way to phrase your question. “You– if I touch you, ah, there, do you–?”

He can’t think of a good way to answer, other than plainly. “Yes.”

So you touch him, on the soft, dark skin. Though you admit to yourself it is the color of swamp water, you must also admit its silky feel, its strange warmth. Looking past him, you see that his tail – for you aren’t sure what exactly to call it – stretches on into the chambers, under the veil and out of sight. You knead a spot near his hip bone, and he shudders again, throwing his head back. You remove your hands, and they come away bearing mud-colored muck.

“Good?” you ask, cautiously. He nods, biting his lip. One of his hands rests on your shoulder, and as your hands roam again his grip grows tighter. What exactly your touch is doing to him, you can only guess, and you guess it must be good.

He opens his eyes suddenly, looks down at you. “Oh!” he cries. “This was meant to be for you. Please–” he maneuvers gracefully, removing your hands and pinning them at your sides. “–pardon me.”

Finger on your chin, he tilts your head toward him. “They say I’m greedy,” he says wryly. “Can you imagine that?”

Had he not set his hand upon your inner thigh, you would have laughed. What comes out of your mouth is a soft moan. He touches gently the skin on your lower belly, coming closer to the source of the heat in your body. Embarrassment overtakes you, and you throw an arm over your eyes. Aldrich pushes it back, eyes you gently.

“Do not avert your eyes, lamb. Not everyone gets to see this.”

“That’s why it’s so–”

He presses his mouth to your nipple and his hand to your groin, and you cry out. His touch is slow and deliberate, the practiced hand of someone with infinite patience. He works you in small circles, applying proper amounts of pressure, quickening the pace as needed; he is paying attention to your body and nothing but.

It does not take long for you to spill over, his name on your lips and a hand twined through his hair. He keeps his hands on you as you ride out the wave of pleasure, until your muscles have gone slack and you have sighed deeply. And then, tenderly, he kisses your forehead, your nose. So many small signs of affection, lavished upon you. For a moment you imagine that you’re the only person he’s done with to.

Brushing your sweat-soaked hair from your eyes, he says, in a voice like shifting silk, “You are most treasured.”

“More than–” you venture, for despite your ecstasy you cannot stop thinking of your colleague’s ring.

“Most,” he says. There’s an unexpected note of humor in his voice. Then, he whispers, “One more gift.”

He takes your left hand and holds it in his palm, with his other hand producing a small golden ring from some unseen pocket in his discarded clothing. The gem shines peculiarly in the light, as if it were a ghost of a jewel and not a physical object. It was all the more beautiful for it. As he slides it onto your ring finger, you think, as good as if we were married, just as your colleague said, and you work hard to suppress a smile. Aldrich has always been a saint to you, but now he is truly a sight, ringed with moonlight from behind. You want to stay there and gaze at him until the sun rises, but all too quickly he is dressing you, ushering you out, pressing slender fingers to the small of your back.

He promises you will see him again. You take him at his word.

—

In the morning, at breakfast, someone notices your ring. And then someone notices the mark on your neck. Suddenly there is a clamor around you, and questions, boundless questions: when? How did you–? Was he–?

Gazing at the brilliant blue sapphire on your finger, you only smile, and shrug.


End file.
